


Off The Catwalk

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Malcolm’s been a brat.  It’s all Trip’s fault, of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** Only myself to blame if I've muffed up on the spoilers. Told from Trip's POV

Well who'd've thunk it?

He's curled up beside me, his chin rested on his folded arms on the gantry rail, calm as a sleepy kitten beside the fire while the old movie flickers on a makeshift big screen. _This_ is the whiney little asshole who's spent the past few days making me wonder what in hell alien funny-juice Chef's been slipping into my coffee for the last six weeks?

He doesn't even sneer at the fast-paced Western we're watching: unless you count that lazy, almost disinterested snark about _ridiculous hats_ , and that was thrown out because he knows I expect it. He's breathing slow and easy, loose and comfortable even in a _pokey dirt-encrusted hole in the corner no self-respecting sheep would use to shit in._

Sometimes I think he's the cutest little sonofabitch in creation. Others, I figure he's borderline schizophrenic. 

And which jerk chose a two-hour movie for tonight?

Oh, yeah. That'd be me.

I thought it'd take peoples' minds off our confinement a while. Instead it's just reminding me that we're getting released early, and now Malcolm's stopped being antsy I'm the one who can't keep still.

C'mon Sheriff, just shoot the goddamn bad guys and put us all out of our misery for Chrissakes! 

I've not been able to take his hand in days. And just thinking about what else I haven't done could get mighty embarrassing with the whole crew packed into this miserable, stinking corner like warp coils in a case.

He sighs. Damn his pretty grey-blue-grey eyes, doesn't he realise I'm suffering here?

T'Pol's getting the evil eye from half a dozen crewmen. Look darlin', we know you're smart; just don't spoil the picture for people who actually want to figure the bad guy's ID for themselves, okay? And Malcolm, if you shift any closer into my personal space, you'd better be holding a fire extinguisher!

You know what? I wanna go back to the main catwalk.

*

Jesus, Mary and all the fucking saints be thanked, we've been let outta jail early. Sheriff Boggs must be the dumbest lawman in the West not to have figured Jackson was the murderin' outlaw half an hour ago. C'mon, people, we got our ship back, let's go spread out around it, okay?

Malcolm's in no rush, stretching his spine all lazy, heavy-lidded eyes sweeping the area before he clambers as near upright as he can on the gantry and drops in just a little too close behind me. "Did you enjoy the film, Commander?" he asks, too smooth and innocent as I hesitate to stretch and drink in the bright lights of a proper starship corridor. How come I never noticed how beautiful these things are? They're so damn _clean!_

Unlike me. 

Malcolm falls into step alongside me as I grunt and amble toward the 'lift, taking my time so as not to get caught up in the crowd. "Plans for the evening, Sir?" he asks.

Something tickles down my spine. I know that tone; satin-soft with just a hint of steel underneath. He's up to something. 

"Nothin' special. Guess you're headin' home for a shower?"

He doesn't even flinch. Cocky bastard. Just tips his head to one side and smirks at me like I wasn't just pulling him on his goddamn bratty behaviour. "I imagine ninety percent of the crew will be doing exactly that, Commander," he coos as we step out onto B deck. Shouldn't he be turning left here?

Fuck. I hadn't thought of that. When every damn shower on the ship's activated at the same time, it'll short the system. Folks'll end up covered in soap, cussing like troopers. 

Not Malcolm. Smart guy.

He leans against the wall, head cocked, arms crossed. Watching me key in my code. Doesn't ask for an invite, just saunters into my cabin like it's his own. 

Guess he's spent more time here in the past couple of months, but I'd like a little warning before he kicks his boots under my desk. I thought...

He's on me so fast I can't remember what I thought, ravaging my mouth 'til I stop thinking altogether and just grab a hold of the hot, tight little body rubbing itself up against mine. Gotta check how many hands he's got 'cause they're everywhere at once: in my hair, kneading my ass, tugging my zippers and he's panting, muttering against my teeth as he licks and sucks and scrapes his way around them. He's wild, and it's contagious. 

God, I've needed this!

Not as much, I'm guessing, as my lover. He's got my top half exposed, and he better not thrown my undershirt away, 'cause it'll stand up all on its own after a few days in that sweat-box. "Didn't mean to be such a bastard, wanted you so much, oh fuck Trip, you smell bloody marvellous!"

Huh?

"Malcolm, slow down." 

Have I gone nuts? He's ravishing me with the same terrifying focus he gives his fuckin' phase cannons, and I'm telling him to stop? Tell that to Phlox at your next psych review, Trip; he'll kick you outta the fleet so fast your ass'll catch fire.

Feverish eyes burn through me as he looks up, but his body's still moving, hands still working me out of my clothes. "What's gotten into you?" I wonder even as it infects me and I yank his jumpsuit down to the waist. I think I'm getting an idea because he smells awfully good himself in a sweaty, _down-and-dirty_ kind of way.

He licks my shoulder, nuzzling his face into my armpit. "Stop it, Malcolm!" I yelp, as much surprised as offended. The hair there tickles as he inhales. Shit, it must be rancid where his nose is!

"Couldn't get away - could smell you everywhere," he growls, shoving me back against the bulkhead. I can't help it - this madness is exhilarating and I have to match it, rubbing my face against his sweat-sticky, gritty skin and sucking the taste of him deep into my mouth. 

I may never let him shower again. Salt and grease and sweat against my tongue. Chef should put _Dirty Malcolm_ on the menu. 

"Thought - guh!"

Whatever he was thinking, the nod of my dick against his wipes it out of his head. Our pants are 'round our ankles, there's oil in his hair and I can smell something else now too, something sickly and musky that seems to seep into my brain. 

It's us.

The sharp-sweet musk of unwashed skivvies and male sex. He's hotter than the heart of any sun; he's been ready to go supernova all this time, and suddenly his bitching and whining makes one helluva lot more sense.

Sexual frustration. Well, why the hell didn't he just _say_ so? It's not like I wasn't going through it myself.

"Oh, God!" 

He stiffens; shudders; buries his face right back in my stinking armpit as he comes, warm, wet spurts of him soaking our bellies and chests and it's just too good, I'm right there with him, balls all tight and cock on fire, yelling his name as I climax hard, my whole body a river of molten heat. I cling onto him as we slither down the wall into a sticky, sweaty, smelly heap on the floor, burying my face in his damp hair, my eyes tight shut as the ship comes together again around us. I don't know what just happened, but it was fucking incredible.

Malcolm shifts in my hold, and when he looks up I realise he's looking more Malcolm-ish - more like _my_ Malcolm, even if nobody else realises that. The fine lines of tension have smoothed out from around his eyes. He's rumpled and sated and all that pinched pissiness I've gotten used to seeing in his face has disappeared. 

"I really _am_ sorry for being such a twat," he says, using the backs of his fingers to sweep a few drops of sweat off my face. I watch enthralled as he licks them away. "It was agony - being so close to you and keeping my hands to myself. I _had_ to snipe or I'd have screamed."

Now isn't that the sweetest thing ever? "'s okay, babe," I promise, and he's nuzzly enough to forgive a pet-name he loathes. "I couldn't get you outta my head either."

"It was the smell of you most of all." He's fascinated by my chest hair; can't stop himself playing with it in the afterglow, giving the odd little tug and smiling when I flinch. "No matter where I went in that pathetic little hovel I could smell _you_ , and it drove me doodle-alley."

Hmm, that might be meant as a compliment, but Momma raised me to worry about these things. "Do I stink that bad?" I ask, pulling up an arm to sniff my own pit. 

Maybe I shouldn't have done that. I'm pretty damn pungent if I do say so myself.

Malcolm definitely likes it. His straight nose twitches and the tip of his tongue sneaks out. "That _badly_ ," he says, making a show of correcting my grammar. "You're just so bloody male and delicious I couldn't get away from you even when those blasted aliens were trying to barbecue their dinner in the next bay! All I could do was keep reminding myself why I _shouldn't_ simply slam you up against the bulkhead and have my wicked way with you."

Nobody's ever refilled my tanks faster than this man. Just the thought of him taking me in full view of our shipmates has my cock jumping like a young hare on something illegal, and my mouth's dried out like a Vulcan desert. "Ah'm real glad y' didn't tell me that, Malcolm."

"The rest of the crew should be bloody glad I didn't act on it."

He always gets cheeky when he's coming around after fantastic sex. "Would've gotten us past makin' any announcement," I say, pleased that I've kept the sore point so casual. He chuckles, rubbing against me nice and slow as he stretches. Damn, he's trying to move.

Oh, right. To the bed. 

He cocks an eyebrow at me. "You planning to sleep on the floor?" he enquires, all sweet and innocent as he holds up the covers just enough to display his wares. I don't need a second invitation and he snuggles up real close, dropping the blanket down over his head while my arms come up around him. Does this mean what I think it means?

"Uh, Malcolm? You stayin' the night?"

That sounded scared. Damn right!

I can count the number of times we've spent the night together on one hand. Excluding the thumb. And most of those were because he passed flat out in sleep after a howlin' orgasm or three.

"Hey!" He's licking my neck. Who'd have thought Lieutenant Allergic would have a fetish for sweaty men?

Maybe it explains how he got that nickname.

"If you'll let a grumpy tosser share your bed."

There's real uncertainty in the words and it rips my heart to pieces. "Darlin' I know everything about the catwalk freaked you out," I say, trying to be sympathetic. No privacy, a mess of dirt and grease and unwashed bodies... to a Reed, that's probably what Hell looks like. 

And I made it worse, 'cause my own special Reed couldn't resist the smell of me.

I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be proud of that.

"There was no need to take it out on you, though." He's supposed to be perfect. Never to complain. I hate it when he beats himself up for being human.

"Hey, you wanna be grateful I had Travis with me checkin' out the accommodation. If he hadn't reminded me we needed a john, you've been shittin' in a bucket."

The joke works. His whole gorgeous little body ripples with a chuckle, and I nearly come on the spot when he dives under the cover to bite my unprepared nipple. "The contents of which would've ended up on your head, you filthy bloody backwoodsman," he growls, laughter firing like lightning through his eyes as he pops his head out, letting the blanket slide off his shoulders and down to rest on my hips. "Good Lord, Trip! You do need taking in hand, don't you?"

Oh, boy. His hand takes a piece of me that almost jumps for joy in agreeing. "If you're volunteerin'," I hear somebody growl a long, long way away as he starts a slow, steady stroking that's making the world around me melt. Malcolm chuckles again.

"Oh, I wouldn't trust the job to anybody else," he coos, swooping in for a kiss as well. My last thought before everything explodes is that hell, I'll hafta get dirty more often!


End file.
